A Place Beyond the Sea
by hey.kiddo
Summary: The Knight's death after the war relieves many but unsettles Balamb instructor Quistis Trepe. She chooses to find out what happened to the only man she ever loved after the war but finds herself in the middle of a massive conspiracy instead. Seiftis


**A/N:** For those of you who have been following my previous offering "Past That Ocean of Stars," please be aware that this is a rewrite of that same story. I had grown unsatisfied with where the story was heading and found that the only way to remedy this and continue was to start over from scratch. I hope you'll understand and wish to keep reading, and for those who are new here, please enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters and names of places in this story. To the best of my knowledge, these are properties of Squaresoft/Square-Enix.

**- Prologue -**

The dingy and aged clock radio on the windowsill read _0652_. It expected to begin its aggressive ringing in exactly eight minutes, awaking no one. The bed had been made the morning before, with an almost insane and obsessive fury. There was no sign that it has been disturbed since, save for a lone, crumpled then salvaged sheet of paper at the edge, upon which the words _eulogy_ and _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ had been scratched out. The author stood several feet away at the door to the terrace, her left hand holds onto the frame above her head and her right casually twirls a lit cigarette.

_0655._

She took one last, deep drag on the now dwindled butt before finally abandoning it to the cold cement beneath her nylon-clad feet. Not so much as a flinch disturbed her hardened features as the butt rolled threateningly toward her skin. She ignored it, running both hands through her wild and untidy wheat-colored hair instead. As each strand fell gingerly to the black chiffon adorning her back, the light caught it, exposing rich honeyed undertones. The static clung to the stray strands, each blond fiber hugging her shoulders in an embrace not long enough to wrap itself around her.

_0658._

A slow but weighted sigh escaped her lips as she turned back into the room, her eyes settling on the surroundings as though for the first time. This cold and wet morning, nothing registered a hint of familiarity. There were no broken toys strewn across the cold tiled floors, no plates of half-eaten crackers and cheese. There was but one SeeD cadet uniform hanging in the aged closet, the carefully structured façade that accompanied it is lost elsewhere. Perhaps under the bed but more likely out the window. Her tired body dropped onto the stiff mattress, letting the contours of her body sink against it with little care for the wrinkles such a reckless action produced. She let her right arm fall across her eyes and the pupils dilated quickly to devour the welcome darkness. In her left hand, she held the wrinkled piece of paper.

_0700._

The clock radio begins its shrill wake-up call, only to be met with a kick from her right heel. The little electronic box clunks to the floor behind her headboard, between the wall and bed, where the abyss muffles the ringing. Like a distant, faded memory. Much like the sound of his voice.

Her throat was bruised and sore after yet another long night of restlessness. She had spent the past six or so hours emptying whiskey bottles that tellingly stood at the foot of the bed. She quickly attributed it to stage fright, having been appointed the task of giving a eulogy. There was no backing out now, since she'd promised Matron.

"Damnit!" The hoarse rasp present in her voice surprised even her. Her right hand bunched into a fist and slammed against the wall. The clock radio receded. Either she had grown deaf to its repetitive drone or the batteries had finally drained.

Despite her initial impressions, this new silence proved smothering, menacing even. The room was growing thick with insecurity, with disappointment. She had spent weeks pushing back against her own feelings, junctioning any and all Guardian Forces she could get her hands on to assist in the task, but today it seemed that even they were betraying her defenses. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but she was feeling rather perceptive of her current predicament, scraping away at the layers and layers of bandaging she'd plastered around her, listening her imagination vigorously churns out what-ifs and maybes, thoughts she'd attempted to suppress after the viewing…

"_How about you, Instructor? Do you think we have reason to worry? Could he still be alive?"_

The look on Xu's face was a mix of expectancy and caution as she asked the question and the memory of her own betrayal pained her just the same. _Of course he's alive_, she thought to herself but held her tongue, and gave instead, the response expected of her, even though not an ounce of her heart was in it.

"_I believe the worst is finally over."_

But it wasn't. The worst had yet to come. The worst was this moment now, in this lonely, pathetic room where she lay thinking that maybe, just maybe, this was all her fault. Maybe it was her cowardice and shame that brought her to this day. Perhaps it was her cowardice for standing up to them, to support him, because she understood after months of trying to, just why he had done what he did. Perhaps it was her shame from being branded a sympathizer in hushed tones as she walked by, as she gave her lectures... It brought an overbearing loneliness, the one thing she had left now.

The calendar hanging on her closet door confirmed this. Four hundred and seventy three black x's, one for each day from his disappearance to his death. She kept the x's going until the coroner confirmed the identity of the body. Really there should only be four hundred and sixty seven. _Really_, there should not be one at all.

For four hundred and sixty seven days there was nothing to remotely suggest he even existed in the physical realm any longer. The only shred of him that remained now was a boarded-off room down the hall, the name _SEIFR_ scratched into the rotting wood; as stubbornly unyielding to the elements as the man it represented.

"Quisty?"

There was a quick knuckle rapping on the door that brought a needed break to her thoughts. Quistis inhaled deeply before pulling herself off the now disheveled bed. She soothed out the creases in her black dress and pulled it down where it had run up to hug her torso before making her way to the door. The empty bottles caught her eye and she turned around to nudge them to the blackness under the bed, out of sight.

"Yes?" she called out from behind the door.

"Quisty, we're just about ready," a muffled mezzo-soprano voice came through the door. _Selphie_.

Quistis looked down at the piece of paper still in her fingers, its once clean and crisp pulp now stained with skin oils, the edges ripped and bent. It was a more accurate reflection maybe, both of the state of the eulogy and her own state of mind.

She opened the door, closing it behind her without so much as acknowledging a second backward glance.

"Wow Quisty, are you okay? You don't look so good…" the girl's genuine concern went unnoticed. Quistis shrugged it off and showed Selphie the piece of paper, as though proof of a night of hard work; time well spent. She knew, however, that Selphie wouldn't buy it.

"I'm a-okay," she said, a reply uncharacteristic for her. Selphie tilted her head to the side, something on the paper suddenly having caught her attention.

"Is this your speech?" she asked, her brow knitted, her voice dripping with confusion.

"Yes, why?"

"Are you really going to say that?" She points her finger to a string of loopy cursive, covered in harsh, jagged pen marks. Quistis turned the paper over and gave it a quick glance. _fuckfuckfuckfuck._

"No, Selphie," she smiled weakly, a small throaty laugh escaping her lips. "You see... that's why I've crossed it out." The mousy brown-haired girl before her smiled, and nodded enthusiastically, then turned to lead the way. Quistis followed, not daring to look up at the plank-adorned doorframe of his room, but instead let her fingers brush against the chipping, dimpled wood. Her feet felt heavy and uncooperative as she nearly tripped over the sandy steps out of the kitchen to the beach where a row of seats were neatly arranged and the remainder of her friends were taking their seats.

At the bottom of the stairs, Selphie gave Quistis' hand one last squeeze that her neurons barely registered, and then made her own way to Irvine. She took her own seat next to Matron, who held out a frail and aged hand that Quistis hungrily took in her own. They exchanged a look, the one that said _I'm sorry_ and _I know_, but exchanged no words. Quistis suddenly felt so small, watching, but not listening, as one by one, everyone stood before them and said a few words. When Squall had finished giving his own speech, Matron nudged Quistis forward.

Her body felt unnatural, awkward and thick as she stood behind the little wooden table before her audience. All that was left of Seifer now rested in a small coral-colored container filled mostly with memories. There was nothing right about this. As Squall turns to leave, Quistis felt her own hand wrap itself around the fabric of his sleeve. He turned around and looked at her but didn't have to ask. When he took his place next to her, she glanced up and mouthed her thanks, glancing to her audience then. Matron held in her lap a framed portrait, her weakened and pale fingers grasping onto him so tightly that her skin was translucent. Quistis could feel her gut begin to churn.

"We are gathered here today," she began, her voice catching in her throat, "to bid farewell to a dear friend." Her hands gripped the paper too tightly, ripping it, but she continued regardless, her teeth chattering. The spray of the roaring and hissing ocean behind her pushed her to keep going, reminding her where she was and why.

"A dear friend who lost his way..."

The water tickles the thin skin of her ankles with its crisp and frosty bite. And suddenly, she realized she was lying. She was lying for Matron, lying _to_ Matron...

"A friend we couldn't save..."

_A friend we didn't want to save..._ she knew it's what she should have said, and the facial expressions that surrounded her confirm her suspicions. It was true then, wasn't it? That she really _was_ his only sympathizer. She felt words vacating her throat, but could only hear the moaning of the sea behind her as it filled her skull and reverberated the same white noise that plagued her since she read _The Knight has Fallen! _on the Balamb Times front page.

"... And our hope is that maybe he has finally found his peace." The sheet was now little more than a wad of dirty inked pulp. The words _logy_ and _fuc_ were only marginally legible under tornado-shaped ink marks.

There was no need to continue. Instead, she lifted the urn from the small wooden table housing it and turned to face the echoing ocean of bubbles and white scum.

And then, as she opened the container, a twinge of guilt for not being able to fit inside with him ripped viciously through her chest. As she exposed all that was left of Seifer to the salty Centra air, she imagined she was inhaling, breathing for the both of them, that this pile of ash and dust, of charred dead cells was breathing as part of her. As the gust picked up again she let the rest of him spill fluidly out into the sea and watched as he hugged the bubbling waves, glided effortlessly across the shore and dove into the bitter, camouflaging sand.

The urn fell swiftly from her hands and was violently sucked into the ocean, and just as swiftly, Quistis followed on her hands and knees. Her knees hit moist sand, caving under the weight of bone and thriving flesh and her hands sank faster still, grabbing wildly for him, to stay, to come back, to _be_ for just a little while longer. She just wasn't ready for it. But her mad dash proved futile and the panic that quickly crept through her spine was more than she could bear to handle in her drunken, fatigued state. She felt the familiar mix of rage, guilt, disgust boiling inside her, threatening to erupt, and the self-restraint she'd practiced for years had finally run out. Instead of recomposing herself, getting back up on her feet and redressing the bandages, she threw back her now wet and salt-matted mange and howled at the surf with a with a pain so deep she felt it cut through her.

She screamed until she could not breathe. She cried until she could no longer feel. And then she sobbed until her heart finished breaking for the very last time.


End file.
